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William Johnson had sunk about as low as it was possible to go. He walked resignedly out onto the stage in front of the audience of two dozen drunken tourists.

"Int-roh-duuucing, the amazing Peckerman!" exclaimed the sleazy master of ceremonies, with a flourish of his ever present cigar. "The only man in the world with a prehensile infinitely extendable penis!"

How did the son of one of the world's top superheroes end up performing in a Tihuana freakshow? Life's like that sometimes.

The rowdy audience were suddenly silent as he dropped my baggy pants and they saw his floppy two foot cock begin to dance like a cobra before an Indian snake charmer. They gasped. They'd never seen anything like it. Then it shot out to ten feet in length, wrapping itself around a rafter near the ceiling. Grasping it like Tarzan with a jungle vine he swung out over the heads of the mesmerised on-lookers, who ducked and shrieked in surprise.

Sure there was some satisfaction in getting that kind of reaction, but try living with it your whole life. He was a freak, at home only amongst other freaks, and then only because they were fellow outcasts. He didn't particularly like most of his fellow performers, but they accepted him as he was and that was as much as he could expect.

When the show was over he retreated to his grotty dressing room and that half-finished bottle of scotch.

He'd tried to live a normal life. But the kids at school had teased him when they saw him in the shower. When he tried to impress the girls with the tricks he could do they ran screaming to the teacher and he ended up getting sent home. Still he didn't give in.

After leaving high school he had become a plumber's apprentice. That was a good normal job, far removed from any comparison with his famous father, under whose shadow he lived.

But, once he had qualified as a fully-fledged plumber, one too many clients caught him using his penis to unclog their drains and he'd had to give up working.

Show business was the only place a freak could be accepted and make a reasonable living. He'd applied for a spot with the Ringling Brother's circus, but, when they saw his act they were as horrified and they were amazed and told him there was no way they could use him in a family circus.

So that was how he came to be drinking whisky in the fly-blown dressing room of a Tihuana sex circus.

He lay back on the bed and took another swig from the bottle. When the urge to take a piss came to him he didn't bother to leave the room, he just let his cock snake out the door, along the floor and into the open door of the men's room. He sighed and lay back on the bed as his bladder emptied.

"Ouch! Ya clumsy motherfucker! Watch out where you're putting your feet!" he cried as the Man with the Talking Arsehole stepped on his cock. It happened often enough that he could tell who it was by their weight and the texture of the soles of their shoes.

"You got mail," announced the Three Breasted Woman poking her head around the door of his dressing room and chucking him a letter.

"Who know's I'm here?" he asked rhetorically.

"Fucked if I know," she replied, not realising that he was talking to himself.

He tore open the envelope. It was from St. Xaviers Academy for Superheroes. He might have known they would approach him eventually. His father's old school.

"If you can stay off the booze, we may be able to offer you a place in our new training schedule," it said in part. So someone had been keeping an eye on him it seemed.

At first he was tempted to just tear up the letter and ignore it. A superhero who swings by his dick! Yeah right. He'd be a laughing stock. And an insult to the memory of his father in the eyes of some. But then he took a good look at his surroundings - the flies swarming over the half-finished plate of chilli con carne, the stain on the floor where he had thrown up the night before, his own bleary-eyed reflection in the cracked mirror over the wash stand. How could anything be worse than this?

"So you're desperate for money!" spat Julio, wiping his sweaty hands on his yellowed singlet and picking up another card. "I told you I'd give you $2,000 dollars if you do the video with the donkey."

"I'm not doing a video with a donkey," Johnson insisted.

"Well, go find the money somewhere else, you're givin' me bad luck," Julio said, throwing in his poker hand.

So much for flying. He'd have to resort to his old standard method of transportation.

The heat was oppressive as he crouched beside the highway, tying on his in-line skates. It wasn't long before a semi-trailer came trundling around the bend though. Opening his fly he let his penis do it's work. It shot out like a tentacle and wrapped around a handle on the back of the truck. Soon he was speeding along the highway with the breeze cooling him down as it dried his sweat soaked shirt and trousers. He reached behind him and pulled a battered paperback novel from his back pocket. Leaning back at a comfortable angle he relaxed and opened the book and started to read. It would be a long trip. Every once in a while he looked around to make sure there weren't any cops approaching.